


den of iniquity

by mercutioes



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Multi, eventally all ship combos!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2020-10-18 04:09:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20632859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercutioes/pseuds/mercutioes
Summary: a series of hypothetical (or not so) encounters between the blue lionsupdated irregularly, no continuity to speak of, we're all having fun here





	1. felix/dimitri - tending to wounds

**Author's Note:**

> this is a personal challenge to myself to write (almost) all the possible combinations of blue lions. there's gonna be tonal whiplash, as i'm writing each one in a vacuum. see warning at the beginning of each chapter. pairing and prompt in the chapter title.
> 
> all of these are post timeskip because i'm not about that life

_Felix/Dimitri - Tending to Wounds_

Magic is miraculous — it knits muscle back together, sets bones straight, mends ligaments, all in the span of a moment. But the thing one learns quickly about battlefield magic is that it's practical. It keeps you on your feet and fighting, but it doesn't give a damn whether you get away pretty or unmarked.

If it were up to Dimitri, he'd let the scars heal ugly all over his body in winding, twisting knots of tissue. Maybe the visual reminder makes him feel better about the lives he's taken, but Felix knows it's not just about vanity. It's about keeping Dimitri well enough to make it to the end of all this — not just survive, but lead a nation when they're through.

So Felix barges into Dimitri's quarters with fresh bandages and unguent from the infirmary. He’s shit at healing, sure, but he’s the only one who won’t cower and obey when Dimitri dismisses him.

“Go away,” Dimitri growls, huddled in his cloak in the corner of his bed.

“No,” Felix replies, kicking the door closed and dropping the medical supplies on the barren desk. “Take off your shirt.”

Dimitri glares at him. Felix snorts.

“Don’t make me wrangle it off you like a child. Your wounds are going to get infected.”

“And yours?” Dimitri demands, though he leans forward and reluctantly shrugs off his cloak.

“Mercedes helped me, just like everyone else,” Felix says. “Not all of us insist on self-flagellation after every battle, you know.”

Dimitri grunts and pulls his shirt over his head, wincing as the motion stretches the lingering wounds and the fabric scrapes over his tender skin. Felix sighs, already squeezing unguent out onto his fingers.

The wounds are shallow, thank the Goddess, and none look infected already. A few of the deeper ones are sloppily bandaged, but the rags look unclean. Felix clicks his tongue in irritation.

“Look at this,” he snaps as Dimitri turns, allowing Felix access to his shoulder and back, where the majority of the cuts mar his pale skin. “Illness is going to kill you before a sword, I swear.”

“Don’t sound too concerned,” replies Dimitri sarcastically, hissing as Felix not-too-gently rubs the unguent into the first and deepest of the wounds. “Careful!”

“_Now _ the beast worries for his health,” Felix mocks.

He continues on until all the wounds have been covered in the oily substance. His fingers glisten with it and Dimitri’s shoulders rise and fall in a shuddering, uneven pattern with every touch to tender skin.

It’s not the first time they’ve done this. It won’t be the last.

Felix can’t help but wonder what Dimitri’s thinking when he leans down and presses his lips to the nape of Dimitri’s neck, where his limp, faded hair parts. Is it for pity that Dimitri allows this? Or is it desperation, touch-starved as he is?

His skin tastes of old sweat and sour fear and battlefield smoke. Felix closes his eyes and rests his lips at the corner of Dimitri’s jaw, feeling the prickle of three-day old stubble. He wonders if Dimitri’s eye is shut or whether he stares blankly at the wall.

Bandaging the wounds takes patience that Felix doesn’t possess. Mercedes would do a much better job, but every time Dimitri winces and growls and glares, he’s reminded why he’s here and she isn’t. He does the best he can — clean bandages slightly askew are better than soiled rags perfectly tied, after all.

When he’s done, Dimitri’s gone quiet. Felix’s hands leave him with a sense of finality. Dimitri half-turns, breath leaving him in a soft rush.

“Wait,” he says, so quiet and low that Felix barely hears even in the perfect stillness of the room.

They both know what comes next.

Felix _ hates _ this. Hates how careful he is when he pulls Felix over him on the bed, wincing when the wounds on his back make contact with the sheets. Felix would rather scratch and bite and fight to be on top, he’d rather _ fuck_, not… not whatever this is.

This tears something vital in his chest even as he brushes his lips down the unmarred parts of Dimitri’s neck and takes both their cocks in his hand. It’s something he should not be allowed, that neither of them deserve, this strange tenderness in the tranquility of the night.

He swallows the soft sound Dimitri makes as he spills over his stomach, and it’s not long before Felix follows with a choked-off noise of his own. At least the old linen bandages have some use, he thinks as he cleans them both.

Dimitri barely moves as Felix stands and laces his trousers back up, staring up at the ceiling.

“Let Mercedes take a look at you next time,” Felix says, like he always does. “She’d do a better job.”

Dimitri huffs a breath and curls onto his side, away from the door, away from Felix. Felix snorts.

“Suit yourself. We have training tomorrow.”


	2. annette/felix - distractions

Felix watches with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as Annette takes red ink to every single one of the sigils he’d drawn, humming to herself as she easily dismantles his spellwork the way his sword dismantles a man’s organs.

“Okay!” she chirps, turning the paper around on the desk so he can see. “You see where you went wrong?”

He stares at the scribblings, then back at her. “No.”

"I marked here that—"

"It just looks like lines."

She huffs. “You’re not even trying, Felix!”

“I tried plenty,” he mutters, burying his face in his arms and glancing up at her from under his bangs. Something about Annette’s teacher voice makes him want to act like a petulant child instead of a soldier. “I don’t understand when I’d use these anyways, they don’t  _ do _ anything.”

“They’re  _ fundamentals _ ,” Annette emphasizes, like that explains anything. “You’re lucky you have so much natural spellcasting talent because your actual understanding of magical theory is basically zero.”

Felix stops listening halfway through her sentence, childish grin spreading slowly across his face.

“You think I’m  _ talented _ ?” he teases, biting back laughter at the tiny, regretful squeak she makes, her ears going red.

“Well, yes, obviously, everyone knows that,” Annette manages, folding her arms, “but we’re here because you’re also very  _ bad _ at magic and I am  _ not _ going to let you distract me away from the matter at hand.” By the end of her declaration she’s practically breathless.

"I wasn't trying to distract you," he says slowly, an eyebrow creeping up even as heat prickles across his own cheeks.

"Well… well, good! Because I'm basically undistractable."

"Yeah?" The switch in his brain that’s activated at the slightest issue of a challenge gets neatly flipped, and it must be evident on his face because Annette’s eyes widen.

“Oh, no, no, no—”

But it’s too late because Felix is already kissing her, gently at first and then with intent, climbing into her lap when she makes an adorable little noise. It must look silly from the outside when she’s so small, but Annette’s surprisingly sturdy, and he likes feeling her hands on his waist, roaming over his back.

When Felix finally pulls away, they’re both well and truly flushed.

“So,” he breathes, “homework?”

“Ugh!” she groans, beating her tiny fists against his chest in mock anger as he laughs. “You’re a  _ monster!” _


	3. ashe/dedue - sharing food

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i would die for ashe/dedue

Ashe considers himself a generous person. He’s left dishonesty behind him, far in the past, replacing it with all the knightly idealism he can muster.

However, when he notices the first (and only) ripe Ailell pomegranate hanging low on the tree, hidden behind branches and leaves and looking so perfect and rare, well…he’s only human. And Dedue had told him once that the fruit was one of his favorites — they didn’t grow in Duscur’s climate, so he’d only had them once or twice as a child when traders came through, and then a few times more while living in Fhirdiad.

He shows up to Dedue’s quarters after dinner the next night, prize wrapped in a soft scarf, bouncing on his toes. His room always smells soft and warm, something unidentifiable in the air.

“I got something for you,” Ashe says, toeing off his shoes and sitting cross-legged on Dedue’s bed. He’s pleased to see that Dedue’s not wearing his armor, just a plain shirt and the soft pants that he wears to sleep.

“Oh?” Dedue sits beside him, leaning back on his hands. Ashe smiles, basking in the easy closeness they’ve managed to attain over the months since Dedue’s return to the monastery. He unwraps the fruit slowly, grinning when he sees Dedue’s eyes widen a tiny amount, then crinkle into his version of a smile.

“Wanna try it?” Ashe asks, pulling out his pocketknife and slicing through the thick skin until they have two perfect halves, the ruby seeds glistening in the rind. Carefully, he scoops a few onto his fingertips, offering them up.

His breath catches in his throat when Dedue leans down and takes them with his mouth, lingering a second too long.  _ Ah. _

"Thank you," he murmurs while Ashe stares dumbly. "It's very good."

"Good!" he manages, voice coming out too-high, and there's the spark of something mischievous at the corner of Dedue's lips. Wordlessly, Dedue dips his fingers into the pomegranate, catching seeds and juice, and holds them out in the scant space between them.

Ashe can only take it for the offering it is, bending his head to draw Dedue's wide fingers into his mouth. The fruit bursts strong and tart across his tongue, no doubt staining them both red. Eyes slipping closed, he licks at the seam between his fingers, tasting the salt of skin beneath the fading fruit.

Pulling back, Dedue's expression is torn between fondness and wanting. Ashe is sure that his is much the same, unable to stop a grin from spreading across his lips.

They exchange fingertips full of ruby seeds, then, back and forth until the rind is empty and their mouths are red and tangled together, Ashe secure on Dedue's lap with stained fingers tight in his hair. Their movements are slow, unhurried, sweetness lingering on their tongues.

No, Ashe doesn't regret this act of thievery one bit. It was for a good cause, after all.


End file.
